


Hold Me at Your Heart

by 13thDoctor



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 16:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor
Summary: Chibs and Juice end up staying late at the garage.





	Hold Me at Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up to the soa fandom 4 years late with starbucks and a whole lotta feels for chibs/juice*
> 
> (Set somewhere in season 4).

They were working late.

Teller-Morrow had a reputation to uphold, and Chibs would be damned if he didn’t finish that bike by tomorrow afternoon, but the Honda hardly agreed with the timeline Clay had given its owner. After bribing Juice with a six-pack and some take-out, he at least had a partner in his misery.

Juice was hunched over the motorcycle, his back to Chibs, arm muscles straining as he pulled on a twisted frame piece. He grunted. Chibs drank, leaned back on the desk, let his eyes fall to where Juice’s jeans clung to his ass.

He looked away.

“This is insane, man,” Juice said. Standing upright, he took a rag from the bench to wipe sweat and grease from his forehead. He bounced on his heels and gestured for Chibs to pass a bottle. “Thanks.” He took a swig. “This bike is like, one dent away from totaled.”

Chibs felt like he was one beer away from touching Juice, and that was a place he should not have been. He hauled himself to his feet to toss his empty bottle in the trash. It didn’t even shatter. Frowning, he walked over to the Honda, and the lines in his face only deepened. When he turned around, Juice was fiddling with a CD player.

“What’re ya doin, Juicy?”

When he smiled, Chibs kind of wished they’d nicknamed him Sunshine, instead. Juice answered, color high on his cheeks, “I can’t work without music. Can’t believe I lasted this long.” Their eyes met as they both realized the unintentional innuendo of the phrase, and suddenly Chibs was blushing, too.

Chibs broke the tension easily, rolling his shoulders and marching forward. “Alright, but I’m not listening to your shite music the whole time.” He went over to his cabinet, unlocked it, and then pulled out a CD case. “You get yours; we switch every song or two. Fair?”

A wide, goofy grin took up the majority of Juice’s face. “Yeah, brother, so fair.” He practically skipped to his own pile of shit, and after some digging, unearthed a large black zip-binder.

Carrying it gingerly, he unzipped only once it was flat on the table, assessing each disc with the same intensity he used to work on the Honda.

“You first,” Chibs offered.

“Really?” His eyes were bright, earnest.

“Absolutely. It was your idea.”

Chibs regretted the offer as soon as the song started. High, fast, blasting brass instruments and Spanish words, it was almost as far from his taste as Juice could have managed. He groaned and Juice laughed.

“You get _one_ skip,” Juice allowed. “You want it to be this one?” He had already started moving to that damn Latin rhythm, and Chibs could hardly say no to something that made Juice’s hips sway like that.

“Leave it on. I’ll live.”

Juice slapped Chibs’ shoulder before rubbing his hands together, biting his bottom lip, and sighing. “Alright, baby,” he purred at the motorcycle, “let’s get you on the road again.”

They worked through Juice’s two songs, and almost a third--Chibs maintained it was because he couldn’t tell where one ended and another began, not because he was starting to like it--before Chibs got his turn.

The look on Juice’s face when the bagpipes began was worth every godforsaken minute spent on the hopeless Honda. “I’ve got Celtic folk songs in here, if ya’d prefer those,” Chibs teased. Juice glowered at him from behind the rear fender, but there was only mirth in his eyes.

“It’s… actually… kinda nice,” Juice interjected after awhile. The instrumentals were a lot longer than Spanish pop songs, so they had a long way to go. Chibs didn’t tell him that, of course. He just listened.

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll get you a copy for Christmas.”

Juice wrinkled his nose. “Pass,” he replied, and chuckled. His face sobered quickly. “It’s really relaxing. Like I can just… focus on this shit, y’know? Like it shuts up all this nonsense up here.” He tapped his forehead with one accusatory finger and then pulled away, embarrassed. A nervous smile replaced the tranquil introspection from a second ago. “Sorry. That was… yeah. Sorry.”

Chibs threw his arm over Juice’s shoulder. They stood side-by-side, surveying how much they’d accomplished so far. It wasn’t much. Chibs said, “I cannae imagine trying to do anything with that Spanish crap rolling around my brain.”

“Hey! You don’t get to come at my music when I just let loose all that nice shit about yours! Nuh-uh.” He shook his head, smiling.

“You don’t even speak Spanish.”

“I don’t speak Scottish. Doesn’t mean I can’t like your stuff.”

“Scottish.” Chibs chuckled. “It’s Gaelic.”

“Whatever! Point is, you should give it a shot.”

Chibs gestured to the CD player as the bagpipes wailed out one final, serene note. “Then educate me, Juicy.” He knew his eyes had darkened, that his voice was low and challenging and suggestive. It was late. He was getting sloppy. Clearing his throat, he put some distance between their bodies, grabbing a tool off the workbench at random.

The disc clicked in, whirring as it loaded. Juice checked the tracklist on the back of the case, laughed, and clicked forward. Stepping away, he looked at Chibs without turning his head, a mischievous smile creeping onto his chapped lips, and Chibs wanted to kiss him, and Chibs--

Even Chibs knew what bloody Shakira sounded like. “Turn that off!” he yelled. “Oh, I’m using my skip, Juice, that’s just, that’s awful--” Chibs went for the outlet with the intent to unplug the whole radio. His free hand was tasked with keeping at least one eardrum safe.

Juice caught Chibs’ hand mid-air. “Give it a chance,” he whispered. When he didn’t let go of Chibs’ hand, Chibs pulled away.

Juice followed. He stepped on beat, hips rolling, shoulders loose. His eyes were half-lidded as he danced forward. Chibs knew if Juice opened them they'd betray the fear his body could hide; even so, a vein in his neck jumped and his jaw was clenched tight.

Clearly more inebriated than he’d meant to be, Chibs let the alcohol and his sorry heart do the thinking for one impulsive second, and before he knew it, he had grabbed Juice’s shoulder, turned him around, and settled with his chest to Juice’s back. They swayed a little off-rhythm, both too shocked to keep up.

Chibs pressed his cheek against Juice’s. His skin was so warm, and Chibs’ breath was hot as he murmured, “Jesus. What the hell are we doin?”

Instead of answering, Juice arched his back and leaned his head on Chibs’ shoulder, exposing the angry red bruises left by the chain. A flash of anger, mingled with grief, shot through Chibs’ stomach. He gripped Juice tighter, fingers through his front belt loops. He wanted to shove forward, but Juice made the decision before Chibs could talk himself out of it. Grinding back on Chibs, Juice said, “We’re doing what we shoulda done a long time ago.”

Outside, an engine roared to life. Inside the garage, Chibs and Juice jumped apart. Chibs growled out a Gaelic curse while Juice exhaled, his hands crossed over the top of his head.

“Fuck,” Juice growled. He kicked a screwdriver across the floor. The metallic clang made him flinch. He turned toward the garage door as his song came to an end, eyes to the ground.

Breathing hard, Chibs walked over to the CD player. He switched discs quietly, afraid to disturb the rapid-fire thoughts in Juice’s head, afraid to do anything but hit ‘play’ and hope for the best. A single piano managed to drown out their breaths as well as Chibs’ footsteps when he crossed the small space.

He took Juice’s hand and spun him so they were facing one another. Suddenly everything faded: the guns, the drugs, the expectations, that fucking Honda, even the club. Chibs chased a tear away from Juice’s face with his hand and a soft smile. The world was quiet as he leaned in, hands on either side of Juice’s face, and kissed him. It felt like cruising down the highway at 100 miles-per-hour, and it also felt like coming home to rest after a long day, and Chibs stopped trying to reconcile those feelings after a while so he could just focus on how Juice tasted.

Like cheap takeout, he decided, and pale ale, and weed if he licked far enough down. Like salt and engine oil.

They were working late.


End file.
